


Forethought

by mistr3ssquickly



Series: Luke &  Han's Adventures in Intoxication [3]
Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 05:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13629405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistr3ssquickly/pseuds/mistr3ssquickly
Summary: In the aftermath of battle barely survived, Han drinks with Luke again.  It's a wonder he expects that it will end well for either of them, at this point.





	Forethought

Crix Madine can, in Han’s humble opinion, go straight to hell.

His estimation of the Imperial fighters remaining on the base he’s sent Han to help Wedge’s fledgling group of pilots overtake is off by a significant margin, their assets more powerful and plentiful than the briefing had described, and where they’re not expecting the attack, they’re organized enough to get most of their troops underground, out of range of even the _Falcon’s_ most powerful weapons before they’ve lost too many of their fighters. Which means landing and engaging hand-to-hand is the only option available, arguably Han’s second least favorite way to pass the time (being frozen in carbonite holds the top spot and will until the end of time), and since Wedge has been so myopically focused on teaching his pilots how to excel at piloting instead of how to survive both in space _and_ fighting on solid ground, things go pear-shaped in very short order only minutes after the first Alliance boots have touched the rough soil.

“This ain’t what I signed up for,” Han grumbles to Chewbacca as they hunker down behind a soot-scarred retaining wall, waiting for the opportunity to relieve a wave of Imperial soldiers of their duty to the crumbling remains of the Empire.

Chewbacca rumbles an assent, his fangs bared and posture tense, fully the veteran warrior Han first knew him to be, as powerful and intimidating as ever in combat. He sniffs at the air and gestures to the southwest, indicating three or four hostiles approaching, his grip tightening on his bowcaster as he lifts it, ready to strike. He goes deathly still before firing off three shots, taking the ‘caster’s recoil with little more than a twitch of the shoulder, three ‘troopers lying face-down with smoke curling from their armor when Chewbacca gestures that the coast is clear, Han following him, watching his back.

They take out a handful more ‘troopers on their way to the rendezvous point, set a couple of traps along the main route, nothing lethal but enough to slow down any stragglers who might be entertaining thoughts of being a hero. Han’s feet are tired and his temper worn raw by the time they find Wedge and the pilots he’s managed to keep alive, two of their number conspicuously absent, the set of Wedge’s jaw as telling as the smear of blood on his flight suit, even before Han’s eyes adjust well enough to the dim light of the hideout to make out the shape of the dead pilots, their bodies draped over with cloth, respect paid even in the hell of the warzone.

“What’s the plan?” he says, looking away, his hand resting on his blaster, a comforting weight at his hip.

“There’s no sense sending back-up,” Wedge tells him. “We’ve been cleared to evacuate as soon as we’re able.”

“But?”

Wedge breathes a pained chuckle. “Lost two of our pilots and four of our ships,” he says. “We’re trapped unless the _Falcon_ can --”

“Yeah, she’s not far off, and she’s good to fly,” Han says, glancing at the pair of pilots standing in Wedge’s shadow, the weight of their trust slowly settling across his shoulders the longer he looks at them. He returns his attention to Wedge. “We lined the path here with some presents for our Imperial neighbors, but nothin’ we can’t skirt. Single-file, move fast.” He glances again at the group. “Room for everyone if you want to do full evac.”

“The others have left already to reclaim their ships and retreat,” Wedge says. “I’m not far behind them.” He taps the back of his hand against Han’s elbow. “Get my pilots back to me alive, Solo.”

 _“Falcon_ ain’t a hearse,” Han tells him, “and I ain’t dying ‘til I’ve told Madine to go to hell.”

At his back, Chewbacca rumbles a warning, sniffing at the breeze. Han pulls his blaster from its holster.

“Time to go,” he says.

Wedge salutes. “May the Force be with you.”

Ridiculous coming out of Wedge’s mouth, sounds like something he picked up from Luke at some point, something he’s saying because he thinks it’ll make Han feel better. Which it doesn’t, in part because Han doesn’t really give a damn about the Force, doesn’t believe in its ability to keep him or the pilots following him with surprisingly little sound to their footsteps safe from the ‘troopers Chewbacca scented. His lack of faith in the Force proves itself valuable in a sarcastic sort of way when it doesn’t do a damn thing to cut the Imps off from the weapons they’ve got stashed underground, neither destroyed nor acquired by Wedge’s sorry little recon team. Doesn’t do a damn thing to protect any of them from the hail of blaster shots that catch them just as the _Falcon_ is coming into view, either, Han launching the _Falcon_ under emergency launch protocol with at least two broken bones in his left hand and the one pilot who survived the ambush tending to Chewbacca’s injuries, the stink of singed fur and blood and terror thick in the recycled air as they make the jump to lightspeed, Han muttering prayers through the pain in his arm to any gods who might bother to be listening.

The good news: They make it back before Chewbacca bleeds out, and the medevac team is waiting in the hangar, prepped and ready to save Chewbacca’s life.

The bad news: They _barely_ make it back before Chewbacca bleeds out, and the pilot tending to him doesn’t make it at all.

Han stays with the body until Wedge’s squadron arrives to relieve him of his vigil, lets one of the medi-droids escort him to the infirmary only because it means escaping the haunted look in Wedge’s eyes, the painful set of his shoulders, the stalwart commander bidding his fellow soldier farewell.

He's drugged but conscious when he leaves the infirmary half an hour later, the pain of his injuries dulled just fine but the fury and frustration just as keen as they were as he landed his ship, further fueled by the disagreement going on between his empty stomach and the painkillers pumped into his system. He isn't hungry but he knows better than to go without eating, knows from experience that the hard liquor all but calling his name from the galley of the _Falcon_ will only make everything worse, so he turns his feet towards the mess hall, equal parts surprised and pleased to find Leia there, her mouth pressed in a thin line that speaks to concern he’s not quite egotistical enough to believe is any more than partially for him, but she carries his tray for him without asking if he needs help, pours him a generous cup of caf and carries his meal over to the table tucked into the darkest corner of the mess, his preferred spot in any wide open space, her delicate brows knit in a frown of concern as she takes in the bandages he’s only partially managed to conceal under his clothes, the cuts and bruises minor enough to not require medical attention beyond a superficial sterilization.

“You’ve had quite the time of it,” she says softly, reaching out to trace the exposed skin visible at the edge of the bandage concealing the fingers Han broke blocking a blow from a malfunctioning blaster the Imperial soldier wielding it decided to turn into a blunt-force weapon. He's got a hairline fracture beyond that where he tripped over the body of a dead ‘trooper and fell, probably saving himself from the hail of blaster fire the last two ‘troopers aimed his way before one of the dying Resistance pilots managed to take them out. Nothing that won't heal on its own, so long as he's careful with his broken fingers.

“Could say that, yeah,” he says. “We made it back, though, me ‘n Chewie. And my ship. What they left of her, anyway.”

Leia nods. “Yes, I read the report. Do you have any sense of when she’ll be able to fly again?”

Han shrugs, picking up his caf and taking a sip. His good hand’s shaking. He’s not entirely surprised. “She can fly now, if she needs to,” he says, “though you know I won’t like it. Probably take me a couple’a days to get her back in good working order, four or five maybe. Faster once Chewie’s back on his feet and can help me out with the repairs.”

He doesn’t mention how long _that’s_ likely to take, stalwartly refusing to think too hard about the extended bacta treatment the doctor on shift recommended to address the injuries his first mate suffered, doesn’t mention the jolt of fear still reverberating through his soul from watching Chewbacca take a blaster shot to the side and fall, motionless for seconds that felt like hours, bleeding heavily as he reared up and fired every shot still in his bowcaster, saving Han and himself and the remaining pilot with them before going down for good, his breathing labored and fur matted with blood. He clenches his jaw tight and looks Leia in the eye, challenging her to call him out on his bullshit, to give him the reality check he knows he’s not up to taking, but Leia doesn’t rise to his unspoken baiting, diplomacy and grace wrapped around her like a shroud, her sympathetic calm grating like the scrub of fabric over the abrasions scattered across his skin.

“I know you ain’t askin’ just out of curiosity, Leia,” he says when Leia does little more than nod and stroke his broken hand, so gentle and affectionate with him it _hurts._ “What’s Rieekan want with my ship now?”

Leia stops stroking his hand. “Carl has nothing to do with it,” she says. “This is -- this one’s personal. I have a favor to ask of you.”

Han swallows a mouthful of caf along with the urge to object (again) to her calling the General _Carl._ “All right,” he says. “Always happy to please my favorite princess. What’s on your mind?”

Leia skims a quick glance around the mess hall and swallows, her caution making the hairs at the back of Han’s neck stand on end. “I know it’s hardly the time,” she says, “with you injured, just coming in from a -- from this latest mission, but I need secure transport for Luke. As discreet as possible.”

“Luke?” Han echoes, surprised. “Where’s he going?”

“Dagobah,” Leia says. “He’s planning to go alone and doesn’t want anyone to know about it. Anyone in the ranks, anyway.” Her mouth quirks in a pale version of her usual smile. “Since you’ve never had much respect for formality or rank, I suspect he’ll go along with you accompanying him without objection.”

Han snorts a mildly hysterical laugh. “I’m the only one you can think of who can slip out unnoticed _and_ out-stubborn everybody’s favorite Jedi brat, you mean,” he says, and the way Leia goes pink in the face as she softens into a the barest shade of a smile is the best medicine he’s received all day. “Sure, I’ll take Luke to his swampy little planet. When’s he planning to launch?”

“Soon,” Leia says. “I think.”

“You _think?”_

“Yes. He hasn’t talked to me about it.”

“Then how --”

“You don’t want to know,” Leia snaps. She shakes her head, dropping her gaze to Han’s broken fingers once again, tracing the line of bandage with the tip of her index finger. “Sorry. It’s a fair question, I know. Just -- trust me on this. Please. He’s planning to leave and I don’t want him going alone. I’m worried about him.”

Han considers her, taking in the weariness he’s grown so accustomed to seeing in her expression and body language that he barely notices them anymore unless he’s consciously looking. A hint of sadness in her eyes he’s not seen since the first year after the destruction of Alderaan, and saw only rarely then, at that. Loss and loneliness she carries close to her heart, honoring him by allowing him to see it.

“You know I don’t want him goin’ alone any more than you do,” he says gruffly, moving his good hand down to rest on her knee. “Lemme go check on my girl, make sure she can make the trip. Dagobah ain’t just the next system over, y’know.”

“I know,” Leia says. “And -- _thank you,_ Han. I wish I could go with you, but --”

“We’ll have room for you, if you want to tag along,” Han says. “Could do you some good, get you away from all this for a minute. Been a while since you had a break.”

Leia shakes her head. “I’m needed here,” she says, and Han can practically _see_ the weight of it settling on her shoulders, responsibility heavier than any he’s ever been expected to bear, more than he would have ever guessed a single sentient _could_ bear until he met Leia. She closes her eyes when he slides his hand around the back of her neck and pulls her close to kiss her on the forehead, keeping her close as long as he can before she tenses and pulls away, the mother of the rebellion-turned-republic replacing in the space of a single heartbeat the woman he’s grown over the years to love.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help get the _Falcon_ back in working order,” she says softly. “We have limited resources and manpower here, but I can see what I can do.”

“Will do. Comm me if Luke tries to sneak out before I’m ready for him. Tranq him if you need to, I won’t tell him you were the one who did it.”

 _That_ gets him a smile, a _real_ smile, the light of it in Leia’s eyes more beautiful than anything Han’s ever seen. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she says, and Han’s pleased to realize he can’t tell if she’s joking or serious.

The _Falcon’s_ in worse shape than he’d remembered her being, or perhaps allowed himself to remember, when Leia leaves him to finish his meal and wander into the hangar to check on his ship, the hull streaked with scorch marks and sparks spitting from something less than a foot over Han’s head when he keys in his code to open the hatch. He slides with a sigh into his flight-seat and strokes the smooth edge of the control console, murmuring to the _Falcon_ under his breath as he initiates her warm-up sequence, just because there’s no one around to hear him and he’s certain in a superstitious sort of way that his girl likes it when he talks pretty to her. _Especially_ when she’s hurting, which the results of the diagnostics he runs show that she _is,_ and all over, at that, not unlike her captain and first mate.

“You’ll be the first one feelin’ better, though,” he promises her, curling his fingers around the hyperdrive lever and giving it a gentle squeeze. “The princess wants you all fixed up, and she usually gets what she wants.”

He downs a few painkillers as he compiles the list of components he’ll need to get the _Falcon_ in working order and has a brief but furious war with himself over whether or not he needs a second set of hands to help him get the work done. Chewie’d get help if he were the one up and about and Han were floating in a bacta tank, he reasons, and Luke’s never been one to demonstrate patience in anything he does, so getting the work done fast take precedence over doing it himself. And most of the engineers he’s met over his years associating with the Alliance haven’t been entirely useless, so --

“Just don’t send me anyone who’ll get underfoot,” he says when he’s managed to swallow his pride long enough to comm Leia with his requests. “I ain’t takin’ responsibility for whatever happens to ‘em if they’re idiots.”

“I’ll send you the best we can spare,” Leia tells him, her diplomat persona firmly in place, which means she isn’t alone, and Han’s never been one to resist the temptation to yank her chain a bit when she’s got company she’s deemed worthy of the diplomat tone, so he calls her a variety of pet-names as he thanks her just because he knows how uncomfortable it’ll make her, Leia cutting the connection as fast as she can in answer. It puts a grin on Han’s face as he re-clips his comlink to his belt and yanks open an access panel, taking a deep breath as he gets to work.

He’s made decent progress on the first of his very long to-do list of repairs by the time he hears footfalls in the corridor, a group of four engineers reporting to him with sharp salutes and an address of _General Solo, sir!_ that would be funny if it weren’t so ridiculous. They get over the formalities quickly enough, though, and they’re not shy about jumping right in, aren’t idiots, either, probably hand-picked by Leia herself, her respect for Han’s ship grown firm over the years the _Falcon’s_ saved her and her little political movement, despite her constant insults and complaints and doubts about the validity of Han’s boasting where his ship’s concerned.

All the same, they’re barely halfway finished with Han’s list of most important repairs at the five-hour mark, Han’s eyes starting to burn with exhaustion, his head throbbing dully despite the second dose of painkillers he’s taken right on schedule. He’s crouched in a position that isn’t doing his headache any favors, working on the damaged wiring in the deflector shield generator when he hears his name and looks around for the source, surprised to find Luke looking up at him patiently from the scratched hangar floor as Han paws at his welding goggles, his hands awkward from the bandages under his heavy gloves.

“Come by to see the show, kid?” Han calls down to him once he’s got his goggles off.

“Leia said you were working on repairs,” Luke answers. “I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

Years of gambling help Han cover his amusement at the earnest tone of Luke’s voice, clearly the product of Leia’s expert handling of her brother, his familiarity with the Skywalker twins’ interactions painting for him a clear picture of what must have precipitated Luke’s arrival in the hangar: Leia finding her brother and casually mentioning the damage the _Falcon_ suffered, expressing concern about Han working on repairs despite his injuries. Her intentionally disapproving tone sure to set off of Luke’s hyperactive sense of responsibility for the safety and wellness of every sentient being in the damn galaxy, sending Luke to the hangar to offer his help, effectively providing Han with much-needed help _and_ placing Luke under Han’s watchful eye, all in one artful swoop.

“Sure,” Han says, promising himself that he’ll drink a toast later to the awesome force of nature that is Leia Organa, just as soon as he can get away with it. “Could use you up here, since you’re offering. Come on up.”

Luke nods and climbs up to join him, openly staring at Han’s bandages once he’s settled at Han’s side instead of focusing on the half-functional generator desperately in need of their attention. “Are you sure you should be doing this?” he says when Han nudges him in the side with his elbow and orders him to focus. “Leia said you were injured. Shouldn’t you --”

“I’ll rest better once my girl’s in working order,” Han tells him, switching on the torch in hopes that Luke will take the hint and stop staring at him. “Don’t like it when she’s out’a commission.”

The look on Luke’s face might be one of pity, but it’s hard to tell through the dark polycarbonate of the welding goggles, Han’s eyesight considerably duller since his time in freeze than it was before. Luke doesn’t ask any more questions, though, concentrating on helping Han fix the generator, his skill with all things mechanized as sharp as ever. He sticks around and helps out with the other tasks on Han’s list after they’ve finished with the generator, silent as a shadow as he slips through the _Falcon’s_ corridors and access shafts, working with the sort of focused intensity Han’s more accustomed to seeing him apply to his Jedi exercises lately than to the simple work he used to take on with such joy.

It’s late by the time Leia’s band of engineers work up the courage to ask Han if they can be relieved for the evening, Han waving them away without argument under the headache threatening to split his skull in half, the other injuries peppered across his body like stars in the night sky kicking up enough of a fuss to make him cranky. He’s crouched down with his forehead rested against the edge of the access hatch he’s been working in when Luke comes looking for him, and he’s honestly too wearied to even try to cover his moment of weakness, sighing when he looks up and finds Luke frowning at him with unrestrained concern.

“Save it for somebody else, kid,” he says when Luke crouches down and asks gently if he’s all right. “Just need a break, is all. I was thinkin’a going down to med-lab to see how Chewie’s doin’, if you’d like to come with me.”

Luke hesitates, just for a second, long enough for Han to lift an eyebrow at him. “All right,” he says.

“You got somewhere else you gotta be?”

“No,” Luke says. “Sorry, no, I just -- yes, let’s go check on him. You should have your injuries looked at, too, while we’re there.”

“Waste’a time, I’m fine,” Han grumbles, but he hauls himself out of the floor and kicks the access hatch closed all the same, gets a proprietary hand on Luke’s back the minute he’s got his gloves off, steering the younger man across the hangar and down the long corridor leading to the infirmary. 

Chewbacca’s out of his bacta immersion, which is arguably the best thing Han’s seen all day, maybe all year, and he’s awake, which is the best thing that’s happened to Han since the last time the big guy put his life on the line and managed to come through all right. He’s coherent but heavily drugged and incredibly sentimental for it, calling Han _cub_ straight away and grooming him with the sort of intensity he normally reserves for his son, fretting unreservedly over the bandages he finds on Han in the process, demanding loudly enough to make Han’s ears ring to know why Han’s up and reeking of engine grease instead of lying down, allowing his body to heal.

“Did that while you were takin’ a nap in the tanks,” Han tells him, forcing himself to focus on Chewbacca’s face, not on the bandages only partially covering the patch of shaved skin stretching down Chewbacca’s side, a sure sign that the injuries his first mate sustained were too serious for the bacta to handle, requiring surgery to address. _“Falcon_ won’t heal just ‘cause we’re lettin’ her rest in the hangar, so I’ve been workin’ on her. You know how it goes.”

Chewbacca woofs a grudging agreement, shifting his gaze to rest on Luke, who takes the hint and steps forward, his quiet greeting interrupted the second he’s close enough for Chewie to grab him and start grooming him. He endures with a look of embarrassed affection on his face, looking to Han for a translation when Chewbacca starts pestering him about Han’s condition.

“Nothin’ worth repeating,” Han says, watching with amusement as Luke only barely manages to extricate himself from Chewbacca’s attention, his hair a mess but his expression warm still, cheeks a little flushed.

“I’m keeping an eye on him,” he promises as Han’s dragged back over for more grooming, “if that’s what you were asking of me. I’ll make sure he rests.”

“I don’t need an eye kept on me,” Han grouses, expecting the immediate arguments he gets both from Luke and Chewbacca but rolling his eyes over them all the same.

He sticks around as long as the sawbones on duty lets him, only goes with as little complaint as he does because Chewbacca looks like he could use some uninterrupted rest. It helps that his own body’s protesting the hours he’s been up, hunched over himself as he worked on the _Falcon,_ the thought of cleaning up and communing with his bunk for a few hours desperately appealing to him, so much so that he’s not subtle about grabbing at Luke the minute they’re outside the infirmary, tugging the younger man in the direction of the hangar.

“Told Chewie you were keepin’ an eye on me,” he says when Luke looks down at Han’s hand wrapped around his wrist and tries immediately to pull free. “He’ll have words for you when he gets out if he finds out you were lying to him. Won’t need me around to translate, either.”

“I thought you said you didn’t need an eye kept on you,” Luke counters.

“I don’t,” Han says, “but you made a promise to my first mate, and I’m a nice enough guy to make you stay true to your word. So.”

Luke cocks his head. “Are you asking me to come tuck you in?” he says, his tone deadly serious as if he’s _actually_ asking, not making fun.

“Tryin’ to keep you all in one piece,” Han says, the mechanics of Luke’s bionic wrist whirring under his hand as Luke curls his hand in a fist, still sensitive about his prosthetic, apparently. Han offers him the sort of grin that used to send Leia into a fury, back in the days when arguing with her took up a fair amount of his time, and gives Luke’s wrist another squeeze. “Your record ain’t all that great in that department, and Chewie’ll do more’n take off your hand if he finds out you lied to him.”

Chewbacca would sacrifice himself a thousand times before he’d hurt a single hair on Luke’s head and Han suspects Luke knows it as well as he does, but Luke’s decent enough not to point that out. “All right,” he says, trying to look like he’s not annoyed and failing completely. “Let’s go, then.”

He pulls against Han’s grip on his wrist and Han lets him go this time, Luke silent at his side as they make their way across the base, back to the _Falcon._ “Your bunk is that way,” he says once they’re on board and Han’s got the entry hatch sealed behind them.

“You don’t say,” Han deadpans. He jerks his head towards the cockpit. “Gonna run a diagnostic on my girl, see how much we got done today.”

Luke follows him into the cockpit without complaint, standing to the side instead of settling into one of the flight-seats while Han warms up the self-check system and kicks off a ship-wide diagnostic, but he says: “How is she?” when the system beeps.

Han leans forward with a grunt and grabs the datapad from the console, frowning as he skims the report. “She ain’t runnin’ at 100% just yet,” he says, “but thanks to the pair of us and our band’a merry men, she’s all right. I’ve flown her when she was in worse shape." He tosses the datapad back onto the console and stretches, at least half a dozen bandages pulling at his skin in the process. “She’s doin’ better than Chewie, at least. Poor bastard.”

Luke’s expression softens a bit, tinged with pity. “He’s going to be all right,” he says.

“Yeah, like always,” Han says. “That’s how it is with our kind, isn’t it? We’re always all right, ‘til we’re _not_ all right, and then we’re dead. No middle ground for us." _Except when you were frozen in carbonite for half a standard year_ hangs unspoken between them, as clear in the little frown tugging at Luke’s mouth as if it were scrolling across his face. Han waves it away, looking out across the mostly deserted hangar simply because it’s better than looking at Luke’s face and seeing his own mortality reflected back at him. “Shouldn’t waste the time we’ve got standin’ around bein’ down-in-the-mouth,” he says. “C’mon. _Falcon_ ain’t gonna fall apart tonight, and I feel like _I_ might. Thinkin’ I'd have a drink and hit the bunk for a few hours. Could do you some good to do the same.”

Luke sighs. “All right.”

He’s quiet as he follows Han into the galley, waving away Han’s offer of a drink and showing off the flexibility he’s maintained over the years as he folds his legs into a position that makes Han’s knees _ache,_ just looking at him. He stays like that, silent as he watches Han drink, as intense as if he were reading the secrets of the universe from Han’s body or the glass in his hand. Only unfolds himself after Han’s finished his drink and set his glass aside, meeting his gaze, and then he pushes himself to his feet and crosses the four steps between them with such conviction that Han keeps his mouth shut, watching, his skin prickling with unease when Luke stops right in front of him and leans in close enough to touch him on the cheek, his eyes hyper-bright as he closes the distance between them and presses a single, gentle kiss to Han’s mouth.

The sheer surprise of it slows Han’s response time badly enough that Luke’s pulled away and started to straighten up before Han’s gotten his wits about him well enough to tug the younger man back down and kiss him back, _really_ kiss him back, no finesse to it, Luke’s body bent awkwardly enough over Han that he has to rest his hands on the wall to either side of Han’s shoulders just to keep his balance, but he doesn’t tense up or falter or -- most importantly -- stop kissing. He makes a soft sound of pleasure in his throat and slips his tongue between Han’s teeth almost inquisitively, making the same soft noise again when Han growls and responds in kind, taking the kiss long, reaching up to _touch,_ little more than resting his hands on Luke’s sides, but it’s different than the millions of other touches they’ve shared over their years together, it’s intimate and thrilling, carries with it the barest undertone of touching the forbidden. Luke’s warm through his tunic, his sides plush with just a hint of babyfat softness he didn’t have the last time Han touched him there, and he’s ticklish, at least a little, squirming away when Han squeezes his sides, his face flushed.

“This why you were so eager to get me into my quarters earlier?” Han wants to know, licking his lips. “Could’a just _said,_ y’know.”

“That wasn't the reason,” Luke says. “I'd promised --”

“Joke, Luke,” Han says, rolling his eyes. “Been wanting to kiss you for a while now. Don't make it more complicated than it's gotta be.”

Luke sighs, the fleeting heat in his expression cooling as fast as it came on. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

“Wouldn’t be you if you weren’t bein’ a pain,” Han says. He pushes himself to his feet and gets his hands on Luke's sides once again, leaning close with the intention of kissing Luke some more, but Luke turns away, his mouth frustratingly out of range.

“I need to go through my exercises,” he says, “and you need to rest. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve -- done that.” He looks down at Han's mouth, then back up to meet his eyes, and frowns. “I should go.”

“Don’t see why you’re in such a hurry to get back to a place like Dagobah,” Han says, getting a solid handful of Luke’s tunic with his good hand before the younger man has managed even a full step back, “but the _Falcon_ can get you there faster'n your X-wing. Probably. More comfortably, for sure.”

Luke _freezes,_ looking at Han finally with eyes wide, his expression broadcasting every emotion he’s feeling like it’s a damn billboard. “How did you --”

“Used the Force,” Han says, rolling his eyes, but the sarcasm all but dripping from his tone is apparently lost on Luke who, for one _glorious_ second, seems to completely believe him, his brow furrowing in a petulant frown that Han doesn’t even _try_ to resist the urge to laugh at. “Don’t matter _how_ I know what I know, kid,” he says. “I'm offerin’ you a ride, no questions asked, long as I know what course to set, maybe have a heads-up if I’m goin’ somewhere somebody’s gonna be shooting at me.”

“You won’t --” Luke starts, but he stops himself, closing his eyes and drawing a slow, deep breath, dropping his shoulders and straightening his back as he does, trying for his Jedi affect. “I appreciate your offer,” he says when he opens his eyes again, his voice low and steady, “but I need to leave as soon as possible. Tonight.”

“And?” Han says.

The crease between Luke’s eyes deepens just a bit, and he doesn’t cock his head, but Han suspects he’s consciously keeping it still, all the other tell-tale signs of confusion he’s used to seeing in Luke’s body language suppressed as well. “That’s -- Chewbacca can't leave medical for a day, at least.”

Han shrugs. “Wasn't plannin’ on takin’ him with us. Big guy’ll rest up longer if I ain't around grumblin’ about repairs and temptin’ him to pretend he’s ready for action before he’s all fixed up.”

“He won’t like this,” Luke says.

“Oh he’s gonna _hate_ this,” Han says, “but he’ll get over it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Wookiees don’t actually hold a grudge as long as humans do, they --”

“I meant about going with me,” Luke interrupts, “to Dagobah. I’m going as part of my exercises. My training. It’ll be boring.”

“Then you _definitely_ need me,” Han says. “I’ll keep you from gettin’ bored.”

The corner of Luke’s mouth twitches. “I meant it’ll be boring for you,” he says. “Not for me.”

Han waves it away. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “You know how it is. _Falcon_ could use some’a my undivided attention.”

Luke stares at him for a long moment, silent as if he's reading Han's mind or something, so Han focuses his thoughts on a raunchy memory of drunkenly screwing Lando in the cockpit of the _Falcon,_ well over a decade before, back when she was still stuck with Lando as her captain and Han still trusted Lando with his ass, if not with his life, figures if Luke’s Force religion lets him read minds, he’ll be getting what he deserves for snooping. Luke doesn’t blush or look surprised when he blinks and looks away, finally, which is as disappointing as it is a relief. “Dagobah is completely unindustrialized,” he says. “I’m not sure how much you’ll be able to accomplish on the _Falcon_ there.”

“Let me worry about my girl, kid,” Han says. “You worry about -- whatever it is you worry about.”

“How soon can we launch?” Luke wants to know.

“Now, if you want,” Han says. “You need to get any stuff together first?”

Luke shakes his head. “No. But you should --”

“If you say ‘rest’ I’m gonna have to punch you,” Han informs him, for all that his broken hand’s starting to ache where the painkillers are wearing off, his other hand never as effective in a fight as its mate.

“You can try,” Luke says, angling his body and dropping his shoulders, his body forming into a relaxed but unmistakable fighting stance, “but I don’t think you’ll be able to.”

Han looks him over, sorely, _sorely_ tempted to take a swing at the blonde bastard staring coolly at him, but the thought of Luke being right is so repulsive that he waves it away, knocking the back of his good hand against Luke’s shoulder as he strolls out of the galley. “Optimism’s not a bad look on you,” he says as he goes by. “Keep it up, might even make it look like you believe that yourself, someday.”

Luke doesn’t respond, silent as he follows Han into the cockpit and starts to settle into the secondary flight-seat at Han’s back, a gesture of humility Han appreciates, even as he turns around to make fun of Luke for it. “Gonna need you up here in case the Empire decides to come flirt with us like they usually do,” he says. “Chewie won’t mind, he knows how hard it is to fly this thing solo." He slants a crooked grin in Luke’s direction. “Unless you don’t know _how_ to --”

“I do,” Luke says without looking away from the controls, either oblivious to Han’s attempt at teasing or not amused by it. Which Han doesn’t much mind, too tired to care, putting to use what’s left of his brain power to calculate the jump to lightspeed, enjoying the thrum of power under his fingertips as he navigates his ship out of the hangar and launches them into the familiar embrace of the stars. He steals a peek at Luke when the hyperdrive engages, hoping to see some of the fresh excitement and wonder he saw in the kid’s face the first time he had him in the cockpit with him for a jump, but Luke just stares through the transparisteel dome as if it’s nothing special, calm and unblinking, streaks of starlight reflected in his eyes.

“It never gets old,” he says when he looks over and catches Han watching him. “Seeing the stars like this. Up close.”

Han’s heart squirms in his chest, easing up his throat and lodging itself there in a lump. Ridiculous. “Yeah,” he says.

“The next jump-point won’t come up for a while,” Luke says, probably misinterpreting the tightness in Han’s tone for weariness, “if you’d like me to man the cockpit for a few hours. There’s no shame in giving your body the chance to heal, you know.”

“Fine,” Han says on a sigh that, even to his own ears, sounds more wearied than long-suffering. “Don’t think you can do too much damage while we’re in hyperspace.” He pushes himself up from his flight-seat and takes a step towards the corridor, then turns, pointing a finger in Luke’s face. “That ain’t a challenge, though. Don’t fly us into anything solid.”

“I won’t,” Luke promises.

He’s at least got a shadow of a smile on his face when Han leaves the cockpit, looks like he’s alert and focused enough to sit up and mind the readouts, which is more than Han feels confident he could do for more than a few minutes more, his body aching all over as he kicks off his boots and peels off some of the bandages he’s pretty sure aren’t doing anything but itching and collapses into his bunk. The thought that he could do with a few minutes in the 'fresher is eclipsed almost immediately by the thought that he didn’t contact Leia before they left to let her know he’d managed to do as she asked, _that_ thought weak compared to the one that follows next that he didn’t tell Chewie that he was going or where he was going or why. He reasons blearily that he’d just talked to the big guy less than an hour before they launched, and that Chewie’ll probably go to Leia when he finds the _Falcon_ missing. Probably. Or kick up enough of a fuss that Leia’ll go to him. Either way --

Sleep takes him on the heels of that particular thought, breaking what feels like scant minutes later to the sound of the door to his quarters hissing open, his heart leaping up through a nightmare about being surrounded by Stormtroopers, the flush of adrenaline sizzling under his skin hot and acrid. His hand immediately goes to his hip, grabbing at the wrinkled sheets bunched up where he’s expecting his blaster to be, sickening fear drawing his stomach up into his throat when he finds nothing but fabric, his gun-belt and blaster no more real than the nightmare slow to fall away. 

“Han, relax,” Luke says, his voice soft in the darkness, helping ground Han back in reality, “it’s just me. We’re approaching the final jump.”

Han blinks at him, stupid in the darkness and adrenaline moving through him on each elevated heartbeat, the scrape of bandages when he lifts his hand to rub his eyes helping him to gain his bearings. He's been out hours, if Luke's right about them being to the final jump point, every muscle in his body confirming that hypothesis, protesting as he climbs out of his bunk and bends to tug on his boots. He’s pleased to see the corridor empty when he makes it out of his quarters, at least, no audience around to see him struggling and pained, Luke minding the ship’s readouts when Han joins him in the cockpit, giving Han a concerned look but not saying anything as Han lowers himself into the captain’s seat.

“You might want to have it on manual when we drop out of lightspeed,” Luke says after they’ve made the final jump. “Navigation’s weird around Dagobah.”

“Will do,” Han says. “Probably too much to hope for a port or landing pad anywhere on the planet, right?”

Luke nods. “You should be able to scan for a patch of solid ground large enough to dock the _Falcon_ once we’re through the atmosphere,” he says. “I can help once we’re grounded, make sure she doesn’t sink.”

“Not inspirin’ a lot of confidence here, Luke.”

Luke looks at him, his expression so like Leia’s when she’s starting to get annoyed that, just for a second, Han can fully see the resemblance between the two of them. “You’re the one who wanted to come with me,” Luke reminds him.

“Ain’t arguin’ that,” Han says, “but _you’re_ the one who picked our vacation destination, so that’s on you.”

He’s only half-joking but it’s enough to make Luke chuckle softly, quiet as they drop out of lightspeed and start the descent into Dagobah’s atmosphere, the _Falcon_ shaking all over as she slips into the fog.

Dagobah is, in order: boggy, smelly, soggy, and gross.

Han’s pretty sure he disliked it even before he knew he was going to get a first-hand tour of the place, just based on the few stories Luke had been willing to share about his time there, training. The half hour it takes them to find enough solid ground to dock the _Falcon_ decreases its chances of winning Han over, then drops them to single-digits, at best, given the zero visibility and the sickening scrape of trees and vines and god-knows-what against the hull, the beeping of almost every scanning system the _Falcon’s_ got to her name gone haywire as Luke suggested they might, just from being near the planet’s surface. Han’s tolerance for the entire planet then drops to zero when he finally lands his ship and she immediately starts to sink, saved only by Luke closing his eyes and stretching out his hands, shoring her up with nearby rocks and boulders that he shouldn’t’ve been able to budge even if there’d been thousands of him working on it but manages all the same without even leaving the ship, a feat Han is _certain_ he’d never have believed possible had he not watched it happen with his own eyes.

And then there’s Dagobah’s gravity, pushing at Han like it wants him to sink into the bog at the foot of the access ramp the second he’s stepped outside his ship, his entire body aching under it with each step he takes.

“Sorry, I should’ve mentioned that,” Luke says when Han complains about it to him. “It’s a lot stronger than Corellia or Tatooine. Or most places. The core of the planet is incredibly dense.”

“Great,” Han says. He looks around, taking in the ancient trees spindling up into the thick swirls of sky, the bogs belching wet rot along the thin tendons of rock and soil dividing them. The sharp edges of stone just barely visible through the mist, hiding caves and cliffs and ravines, all threats against his ship and his person that make his skin crawl with unease. “How do you know we’re in the right place if you can’t navigate your landing?”

“I think Yoda was guiding me the first time I came here,” Luke says, striding over to a relatively smooth boulder and pulling himself up to settle on it, his legs crossed in front of him in a loose knot. “I was able to sense him the next time I came. It didn’t matter so much this time. I honestly have no idea where we are, relative to where I was the last two times.”

Han crosses his arms over his chest. “Guessin’ from your tone that that ain’t a problem.”

“It isn’t, no.”

“Good to hear it.”

Luke draws a slow breath and exhales, the mist around him swirling around his nose and mouth. “I’m going to meditate for a while,” he says, “if you want to go back to the _Falcon_ and rest some.”

“Gettin’ real tired’a you telling me I need to --”

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Luke interrupts. “It was just a suggestion. You were pretty deeply asleep earlier, is all.”

“And you need me out’a your hair so you can do your thing,” Han guesses, pleased when Luke has the decency to at least look a little bit abashed. “Fine. Don’t get eaten out here, kid.”

“I won’t,” Luke says, for all that he closes his eyes immediately after the words are out of his mouth, his black clothing against the glaring mist swirling around him making him almost as painful a target as he was back on Mos Eisley, wandering into one of the rowdiest pubs on the planet with no weapon and no clue, all big eyes and open mouth, his plain tunic and trousers all but screaming _clueless Outlands brat venturing out for the first time._ Practically begging to get cut down or hit on or robbed blind, and yet it worked out okay for him, like so many other situations he’s stupidly put himself in.

So Han leaves him to do whatever he’s doing, retreating to the drier air inside the _Falcon_ with the flimsy reassurance that Luke’s been on Dagobah before and knows what he’s doing, the memory of Luke moving boulders with little more than the flick of his hands helping him feel less guilty about toeing off his boots and going back to his quarters, sleep taking him down as hard as the gravity pressing him into the mattress, the weight of it almost comforting, like a heavy blanket in the winter.

He wakes hours later from dreams that twist and curl around his subconscious like the vines draped in a canopy all around his ship, the world beyond the _Falcon’s_ hull a solid darkness uncut by the stars, but Luke’s boots by the exit hatch are reassurance enough to keep Han from venturing out to fill Luke's ear with his opinions about being out after dark in an uninhabited bog, his hackles lowering only once he’s found the younger man curled up asleep in one of the bunks off the galley, wrapped loosely in a blanket, his uniform draped over the back of a chair, probably airing out after the hours he must have spent out in the damp. Luke doesn’t wake when Han comes in, doesn't stir, his breathing slow and even, his eyelids fluttering as he dreams. Deeply asleep, then, and not likely to get himself into any trouble for an hour or two, at least. Han leaves him to his rest, backing out of the room as quietly as he can, pausing only long enough to down another dose of painkillers before stretching out on his own bunk once again and staring at the ceiling, thinking of nothing in particular until sleep claims him, dragging him down through the tangle of his dreams.

Luke’s gone the next time he wakes, no sign of him along the paths Han walks, looking for him. He comes back as the world is starting to go dark, though, another day ended, and joins Han for a meal of rations, turning down Han’s offer of a drink stronger than the pouch of water Luke takes with his meal. Keeps his answers maddeningly vague when Han asks him what he’s been doing, how he’s been passing the time.

“The days here are shorter than you’re expecting,” Luke tells him after they’ve spent five days together on the planet and Han’s curiosity has only grown, Luke’s silence about his exercises a sharp contradiction to the tendency he's had over the past four years to babble enthusiastically about the Force, desperate to prove himself to Han. “I don’t remember exactly, but it was something like two and a quarter days on Dagobah to one full day cycle on Corellia.”

“And here I thought it was just time flyin’ ‘cause we were havin’ so much fun,” Han deadpans, pleased when Luke smiles.

They fall into a rhythm as the days and nights pass, Luke leaving early each morning, coming back to share the evening meal with Han just as the mists start to brighten into the eerie glow of twilight each evening, stark against the gloom spreading along the damp, squashy soil. Han dedicates his free time to working on the _Falcon,_ the crates of supplies Leia’s engineers left for him serving him better than he’d expected they would, allowing him to make slow but steady progress on both the damage the _Falcon_ sustained in her recent efforts on the Alliance's behalf and on routine maintenance Han's not had time to address. He sleeps more than he should, really, worn down each day by the planet’s gravity and the tedium of being alone, never one of his favorite ways to pass the time. Dreams a lot while he sleeps, and vividly, at that, the ghosts of his past all rising up to take their due once his defenses are lowered. It’s exhausting, the loneliness and dreams only marginally less grating than the constant tension permeating the air on every Alliance base, the reprieve from sneaking and stealing and fighting and surviving oddly welcome, the longest he’s had probably since he was a child.

“You look like you’re starting to feel better,” Luke observes one evening a little over two weeks into their stay on Dagobah, over a month by Dagobah’s day/night cycle. “How’s your hand? Leia said you had some broken bones.”

Han lifts his hand and flexes it carefully, the bandages he wrapped around it himself sloppier than the ones the medi-droid put on him back when the injury was fresh. “Gettin’ there,” he says. “They pumped me full’a stuff to encourage the bones to heal faster. Said I should have full use of it in a standard month.”

“Does it hurt?” Luke wants to know.

Han shrugs. “Could be worse,” he says. “It’s just a couple’a broken bones. I’ve had worse before.”

Luke’s bionic hand jerks, the motion small and quick, but Han notices it all the same, the long days of tedium helping him notice a _lot_ of things, lately, his brain’s response to being bored, probably. “I’m glad it’s healing well,” Luke says, moving his hand into his lap, out of sight, when he notices Han frowning at it. “They say some planets have healing properties, but I don’t think that’s the case here.”

“Don’t think that’s the case anywhere,” Han says, his words bumping over the humor that rises up his throat like a flush. “Old wives’ tale, gettin’ healed by a planet. Pretty sure the whole thing was cooked up by someone tryin’ to drum up business for a healing spa. Somewhere along the way, it stuck.”

“Maybe,” Luke says, soft and vague enough to prick at Han’s curiosity harder than he can ignore.

“You sayin’ there’s somethin’ here that’s ... what, tryin’ to kill us? Unheal us?” he says. “You gotta know that sounds stupid.”

Luke lifts an eyebrow at him, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re the one who said it.”

“No, I -- well -- _yeah_ but you were suggestin’ it,” Han grumbles.

“I wasn’t,” Luke says. “The Force is strong on Dagobah, but it’s not the only force at work here. It’s not what makes navigation difficult, for one thing.”

“Uh-huh,” Han says slowly. “So --”

Luke shakes his head. “I’m just saying, there are things happening here that don’t happen on other planets, forces at work powerful enough to keep Dagobah uninhabited by outsiders. Unindustrialized, even though it’s not uninhabitable, especially not compared to some of the worlds that _are_ populated and industrialized. That’s all.”

Han considers that for a moment, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Tatooine comes to mind,” he says. “Top of my list’a uninhabitable planets.” 

The hint of amusement at the corner of Luke’s mouth spreads a little further. “Exactly,” he says. “So why build a settlement there instead of here, unless something was discouraging you? Something you didn’t even _know_ was affecting you, making you think twice about landing here, let alone staying.”

“If you even manage a safe landing,” Han puts in.

Luke nods. “Some haven’t, before,” he says.

A chill slips up Han’s spine. “Ain’t surprised to hear that,” he says. “Whole place _feels_ like a graveyard.”

“It does,” Luke agrees.

“This ain’t makin’ me feel all that great about you goin’ off on your own all day, y’know,” Han says. “Tellin’ ghost stories like that.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “The dead can’t hurt me,” he says, _“or_ you.”

“Could argue _that_ ‘til we’re both old’n grey,” Han says, “but I’m too sober for philosophy and you don’t drink, so.”

“I might, for that,” Luke says.

“What, talkin’ about ghosts?”

“You talking philosophically.”

Han throws a rations wrapper at him, pleased when Luke’s attempt to dodge only saves him from getting hit in the face, the wrapper bouncing off his shoulder and landing in his lap. “You sayin’ you want a drink?” he says.

“Are you offering to share your life philosophies?” Luke counters.

It’s been shy of a week since Han had a drink, drinking alone never good for anything but nursing heartbreak or loss or a foul mood, so he shrugs and pushes himself to his feet, returning to the table with two glasses and a bottle of brandy he’s pretty sure Luke will like better than the whiskey they drank the last time Luke raised a glass with him. “To drinking good liquor with good friends and trying not to get shot,” he says before taking his first swallow.

“Was that a toast or your life philosophy?” Luke wants to know.

“Yes,” Han says, grinning, and Luke smiles back.

“I like it,” he says after he’s had a sip of brandy, and Han doesn’t bother to ask if he’s referring to the toast or the brandy. He finishes what’s in his glass without another word, and squeezes Han’s shoulder on his way out of the galley, his grip strong.

He’s meditating not far from the _Falcon_ when Han gets bored and goes looking for him a few days later, his legs folded under him this time, which Han can’t imagine feels good on the flat rock he’s chosen for his perch, Han’s own knees aching in sympathy until he’s gotten close enough to discover that Luke is hovering a fraction of an inch above the stone surface, the loose fabric of his trousers down by his ankles the only part of him actually touching anything solid. The air around his meditation spot is cool compared to the muggy warmth closer to the _Falcon,_ for all that she’s running on barely any power, just enough to keep the inside of the ship livable, and running not all that far away, too, close enough that she’s well within sight, still. The bare breath of air that pulls through the mist, making the vines hanging from the trees sway, is almost _cold,_ insinuating itself through the fabric of Han’s shirt, making him regret leaving his vest on board, unnecessary until just then.

He hesitates, watching Luke meditate, as still as the stones beneath him, his eyes closed and lips just barely parted, the rise and fall of his chest almost imperceptible as he breathes. Just as stark in contrast to the mist as he was their first day planetside, dressed all in black, his hair dark where he’s been hidden away from the sun too long, no longer bleached bright by the suns of his homeworld and fluffing in enthusiastic welcome of the humidity so long a stranger to it, though he no longer looks vulnerable, sitting around with his eyes closed. Instead, he looks -- _odd._ Like a forgotten statue of a god, carved from the core of the planet itself and left to sit forgotten in a bog, waiting to silently pass judgment on any lost soul passing its way.

Han watches him for what feels like far too long, the pull of fascination at odds with the animal desire to leave him alone, to go back to the safe artificial lighting of the _Falcon_ and hide away in the familiarity of his own dreams. He’s on the edge of giving in to the urge to do just that when Luke opens his eyes and looks at him, unblinking and silent, staring at him when Han says _hey, kid,_ the sound of his own voice sharp in the quiet undercurrent of sound constant on Dagobah.

“You can sit with me, if you want,” Luke says after just a breath of silence too long, moving his hand out of his lap and patting the rock’s surface. “I don’t mind.”

Han swallows, looking around with a frown. “Kind’a cold here, ain’t it?” he says.

“It is,” Luke says. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

“Didn’t say that,” Han says, crossing the distance between them and hoisting himself up onto the rock, its surface warmer than the surrounding air suggested it would be, and smoother, not the grainy texture of the other stones he’s tripped over and stubbed his toes on over the past weeks. He nods at Luke’s folded legs, hovering still just above the surface of the stone. “Neat trick.”

Luke breathes out through his nose in pale amusement and closes his eyes, the air around Han’s body closing in on him like a blanket swaddling him tight, keeping him from flailing as he’s lifted up into the air, no part of him touching anything solid. “This was one of the first things Master Yoda taught me,” Luke tells him, his eyes sparking mischief as he opens them once again, taking in whatever expression Han’s got on his face. Probably panic, for all that Han doesn’t have the mind to care. “It helps the mind focus on the ethereal if you’ve got part of it concentrating on the physical.”

The words pass through Han’s brain without processing. “Glad to hear it,” he manages. “Now put me down.”

Luke puts him down. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think it would scare you that badly.”

“Didn’t scare me,” Han says. “Could give a guy a little forewarning next time, though.”

“I will,” Luke says. “Promise.”

He lowers himself down onto the rock next, stretching out his legs and letting them drop over the edge, looking around like he’d been dropped out of the sky and isn’t sure where he is, flexing his hands against the fabric of his trousers. 

“The Force is strong here,” he says after a minute, long enough that Han’s back is starting to stiffen up, his tailbone objecting to the hard stone beneath it. “That’s why it feels cold here. It’s affecting the temperature. Among other things.”

“Other things?” Han echoes.

Luke nods. “You’ve been having nightmares lately,” he says. It isn’t a question.

“Sure,” Han says. “That happens to a man after he’s been through a battle or two.”

“Your senses are more alert, too,” Luke says. “You’re on-edge.”

“Should I be?” Han wants to know.

Luke turns to face him, folding one of his legs under him as he does. “No,” he says. “You’re safe here, with me,” his expression so deadly serious that Han can’t muster more than a weak chuckle that Luke extinguishes by leaning in close and kissing him, his mouth cool where he’s been breathing in the damp chill, warming quickly enough as Han kisses him back.

“I'm glad that you're here,” Luke tells him when he pulls away, leaving Han honestly a little dazed. “I wasn't sure about you coming with me, but I'm glad that you did.”

Han opens his mouth to say something flippant about his own charming presence, but what he hears come out instead is: “Why?”

“It's made a difference,” Luke says.

“A good one, I'm guessin’?” Han says when that's all Luke says.

“I don't know,” Luke says. “I hope so.”

Han rolls his eyes. “Cryptic ain't as good'a look as you think it is.”

“I’m not trying to be cryptic,” Luke says. “Just -- I don’t like absolutes.” He looks Han up and down. “I’m glad you came with me because it’s made a difference for me, and right now, it feels good. But it could be bad in the long-run. I don’t know. So I --”

“-- need to meditate less and stop overthinkin’ everything,” Han says around a bemused bark of laughter, reaching out to ruffle Luke’s hair, successful even when Luke tries to lean away from him to dodge the gesture. “You should at _least_ be tipsy before you start spoutin’ shit like that, y’know.”

Luke stretches out his right hand, dragging his fingers through the mist crept closer while he had Han distracted. “It feels a little bit like that, engaging with the Force here,” he says. “Like -- like I’m drunk with it. With what I could do with it.”

A half-dozen innuendos flicker through Han’s mind, nothing unusual for him, but Luke chuckles softly and shakes his head without Han saying a single word, his expression warm with embarrassed affection as he looks at Han sidelong.

“Yes, including some of those,” he says.

“Thought you said readin’ minds wasn’t one’a your talents,” Han grouses, not especially bothered with Luke snooping through his fantasies, but.

“It isn’t, usually.”

“Only here, huh?”

Luke nods. “And only recently. There’s a lot I can learn here. Too much, I think, for one lifetime.” He pulls his hand back into his lap, condensation wet on the bionic skin. “I can see how Master Yoda was able to stay here in exile.”

“I don’t,” Han says, wrinkling his nose. “On that note, should probably be gettin’ back to the others, shouldn’t we? Been a while since we left ‘em in your sister’s hands. Poor bastards.”

“It has,” Luke says. He straightens his back, regaining in an instant the stoney stillness he'd had when Han first approached him. “You’re right. You should go back to them.”

 _“We_ should get back to ‘em,”

Luke shakes his head. “No. I need to stay here.”

“Without any way’a leaving?” Han says. “Or shelter, for that matter. Been bunkin’ down on the _Falcon_ this whole time haven't you?”

“I’ll manage.”

“You’ll come back with me, is what you'll do,” Han says.

“I can’t.”

“You ca-- all right, I’ll bite. Why not.”

Luke sighs, frowning like he’s frustrated, for all that _he’s_ being the obtuse half of the conversation. “It’s complicated,” he says.

“So’s fixin’ a hyperdrive,” Han says. “Try me. I ain’t a _complete_ moron, you know.”

“It's not a judgment on your intelligence,” Luke says, shades of irritation coloring his tone before he draws it back, his voice and temper both even and cool as he sets about talking Han's ear into a knot of mystic vagueness, his usually pablum about the Light and the Dark muddied with the influence his (dead) teachers have been having on him, the way he puts it sounding for all the worlds among the stars like he's been _talking_ to them, out in the mist. Letting them talk him into staying where he is, his resolve to do just that as firm as the core of the planet reaching up to slowly crush him (and Han) into dust.

It doesn't make a ton of sense but it's not gibberish, either, Luke's tone free of any overt doubt or fear or self-sacrifice as he talks. Impossible to dissuade him, then, not without help, and probably only with Leia's help, at that, so Han wraps his hand around the back of Luke’s neck and pulls, pleased when the younger man doesn’t resist leaning in and kissing him, slow and easy. “All right,” he says. “Fine. You want to stay here, you can. But you’re comin’ on board the _Falcon_ for a drink first. No arguments.” 

Luke looks at him, his eyes a beautiful cold blue in the brightness of the mist just starting to reflect the coming twilight, then breathes out a quiet sigh after a second, undoubtedly peeking at Han’s thoughts, seeing himself naked in Han’s bunk, and that probably means Han isn’t going to get that particular wish fulfilled, but Luke says, “All right,” and that’s better than nothing.

“No cheatin’ with the Force, either,” Han says as he slides down off of the rock, his backside informing him just a breath too late that it’s numb, making him stumble as he tries to take a step back, leaving room for Luke to hop down as well. “I ain’t wastin’ good liquor on your Jedi magic.”

Luke climbs down to the soggy mess of leaves and rocks surrounding the stone like a nest, his movements considerably more graceful than Han’s. “Okay,” he says. “I won’t use the Force. I promise.”

Han frowns at him, then nods, leading him back to the _Falcon,_ trying his best as he goes to conjure up the memory of Luke suppressing the effects of the whiskey they drank together after their last escape from imprisonment, his memory failing to provide him with any concrete warning signs that Luke was using the Force to do ... whatever it was he did that spared him his hangover. It isn’t the worst memory to mull over as he pours two generous glasses of brandy in the galley and hands one to Luke, though, knocking his own against it in a wordless toast, the memory of Luke lying in his bunk with him a favorite over the years.

“You look like you’re a dozen parsecs away,” Luke comments, sipping his drink.

“Yeah, well, you’re the big bad Jedi,” Han says. “Can’t you just listen in, tell what I’m thinking?”

Luke takes another sip and shakes his head. “I can’t in here,” he says. “Or most places, for that matter. Just out there, where the Force is really strong.”

“Pity. I was thinkin’ about something nice.”

Luke doesn’t ask him what, which is just a real pity, taking away what Han had assumed would be a great set-up for an invitation for Luke to join him in bed, but he does keep after the drink in his hand, doesn’t turn down the second one Han pours for him, taking it down more slowly than the first, but steadily enough, and a third just as fast after that. He tastes like brandy when Han scoots close and kisses him, moves like he’s drunk when Han stands and pulls him to his feet, leading him down the short corridor to the captain’s quarters.

“I didn’t cheat this time,” he breathes when the buckle of Han’s belt gives him trouble, his hands clumsy, a statement of the obvious so adorably simple that Han has to bite him on the shoulder, just to keep from laughing at him.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, getting Luke out of his tunic and trousers, at least, before tugging him down into bed, enjoying the sight of Luke Skywalker in little more than his undershirt and pants sprawled out on the mattress, flushed pink in the face and at least half-hard, maybe more than, open and receptive and _affectionate_ when Han stretches out half on top of him, kissing him some more.

“I like that drink,” Luke breathes against the shell of Han’s ear before nipping at the lobe, making Han shiver all over. “It’s better than the other one. The one we had last time.”

“Thought you might like it,” Han says.

“I like this, too,” Luke says, rocking his hips, his erection warm and solid against Han’s thigh.

Lust pulls a shudder through Han’s body, pushing him down against Luke in just the right way. “Yeah,” he growls, “me too.”

It’s not how he’d imagined getting Luke into his bed might go, out of all of the varied and creative fantasies he’s had over the years, it’s too sloppy and slow and drunk to meet even the lowest bar he’s set for himself, but it’s good enough, the messy kisses and half-clothed groping an artless pleasure he’s not had in decades. Doesn’t end how he’d expected it to end, either, his ego and libido both taking a helluva hit when Luke stops responding to Han’s mouth and hands touching him, actually _falling asleep_ while Han is giving him a nice purple work of art on the curve of his throat, what Han had assumed would be something for Luke to remember him by once they parted ways. It’s an insult to his skills as a lover that stings more than the hickey he’s sucked into Luke’s skin would if Luke were awake to notice it, but Han hasn’t gotten where he’s gotten in life by letting good opportunities slip through his fingers, so he stays where he is just long enough for Luke to actually start _snoring_ at him, a soft little whiffling sound that doesn’t at all match the worlds-wearied, battle-scarred man lying in his bed, then extricates himself as gently as he can from what even he can’t convince himself is an embrace, leaving his clothes rumpled on the floor where they are in favor of slipping out of his quarters and up to the cockpit, his skin electric with the thrill of sneaking around to do something he’s not supposed to do, something he’s not entirely sure he’s going to get away with attempting.

To his pleased surprise, take-off from Dagobah under emergency launch protocol is far less jarring than landing was, the _Falcon_ protesting only as she passes through Dagobah’s atmosphere, humming happily enough once she’s out amongst the stars, barely shuddering more than usual as she makes the jump to lightspeed. Han’s in the middle of sending a coded message to Leia requesting the coordinates of her current location when Luke comes stumbling into the cockpit, uncoordinated and half-dressed and glaring at Han like he means to kill him with little more than a look, his expression only darkening as he looks out the transparisteel dome at the streaks of stars squirming past.

“You tricked me,” he says when Han says _hey, kid._ “I kept my half of the bargain, I let you get me drunk. I went to bed with you. You were supposed to _go,_ after that. _Without me.”_

“Don't put it like that,” Han says, turning away so Luke won't see the guilt he can feel bringing a flush up his neck. “I just poured the drinks. You're the one who drank ‘em. And you can’t say you went to bed with me, not when all you did was pass out and start snorin’ into my pillow.”

Luke ignores him. “I _told_ you, I needed to stay where I was,” he says. “On Dagobah.”

“Yeah, you did,” Han says, “and you’ve sneaked off to Dagobah twice on your own before, I don’t have any doubt you’ll do it again if that’s what you really want.”

“It’s --” Luke starts, but he cuts himself off with a harsh sigh, visibly trying to gather his cool before looking Han in the eyes. “You will take me back to Dagobah,” he says. “And then you will go back to Leia and assist in the Alliance’s efforts.”

Han blinks at him. “Will I, now.”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh. And you’re gonna, what, sprout wings next and fly around? ‘Cause that’s about as likely to happen as me goin’ back to that god-forsaken swamp, nevermind _leavin’_ you there.”

“You _will_ take me back,” Luke says, raising his voice a little.

Han narrows his eyes. “You know sayin’ the same thing over and over again ain’t gonna make it happen, right? Ain’t how things work.”

Luke answers him with a severe look that would put Leia’s most thunderous expressions to shame, then turns and strides from the cockpit without another word, and Han can’t very well chase after him, not without a set course to follow, but he figures there’s not much trouble Luke can get into on his own, so he leaves him to whatever it is he’s gone off to do, setting a course for the nearest Alliance-controlled planet he can think of and leaning back in his flight-seat, breathing easy for the first time in what feels like weeks as he watches the stars slip by.

They land a scant hour later on the remote world of Zurgen, not the kind of place Han would usually consider as anything but a last-resort stop, but he’s not heard back from Leia or seen Luke since their launch from Dagobah, the worry starting to thicken in the pit of his stomach combining with the desire to not waste the _Falcon’s_ energy reserves as best he can to make Zurgen look like a fine place to stop over for a few hours, at least. He finds Luke in the galley after he’s settled the _Falcon_ in what passes for a spaceport, not much to look at but worlds better than the bog he landed on (in) on Dagobah, Luke folded up in a meditative pose in his preferred corner of the galley, looking up at Han like Han’s walked in on him jerking off when Han clears his throat to get the his attention.

“Where are we?” Luke says, unfolding himself and looking around as if the galley might tell him their location before Han can answer him.

“Nowhere special,” Han says. “Just a layover ‘til Leia or one’a your Alliance buddies tells me where we’re goin’ next.”

Luke sighs, some of the tension in his posture draining out. “Oh,” he says. “Okay.”

“You hopin’ for a specific holiday destination or somethin’?” Han asks.

“No,” Luke says, shaking his head. “Are we someplace we can walk around safely? I’d like to get some air.”

“‘Course it is,” Han says, “and that’s where I’m headed, too. C’mon.”

Luke stands without another word, trailing a step behind Han down the corridor to the exit hatch and out of the ship, following without comment into the little town spread like moss at the port’s edges, his back straight and face impassive as he looks around the outdoor pub Han chooses to patronize, voicing no objection when Han orders food enough for both of them and two pints of ale as an afterthought.

“Lookin’ forward to eating something other’n a rations pack,” Han says after Luke’s silence has gotten to be more than he can stand.

Luke looks at him. “I’m sure you are,” he says.

“You sayin’ you aren’t?”

“No,” Luke says. “I am, too.”

He doesn’t sound at all convincing, but he eats like he’s hungry when their food arrives, takes down his pint of ale almost as fast as Han drinks his, the gentle flush across his cheeks throwing into sharp, ugly focus how withdrawn he’s grown to be over the past week, maybe two, not as strikingly _off_ as he was their final day on Dagobah, but noticeably different, the change gradual enough that Han can excuse himself for not noticing it sooner. Sort of.

He orders himself a second pint of ale to help lighten the nagging guilt tugging at his conscience, drinks it more slowly than the first, enjoying the artificial light around them, the dry air meandering through the pub, brushing past like it doesn’t care what stands in its way, unlike the curl and pull of the mists on Dagobah, always hiding something, moving like a phantom hand, waiting for Han to let down his guard so it could trick him into doing something to get himself hurt or killed. Not entirely unlike Luke, he muses, the younger man's temper at being dragged drunk off his precious bog no longer in evidence, though Han knows better than to think he's been fully forgiven for pulling what even he has to admit to himself was a fast one.

“I owe you an apology,” Luke says, just as Han’s shifting in his seat, contemplating how best to apologise without admitting too much guilt.

“How's that?” Han says.

“I shouldn't have said or done what I did, before,” Luke says. “I'm sorry.”

Han snorts, taking a gulp of ale. “If _that's_ what you consider worth an apology, then you owe me half a dozen more at this point, at least,” he says, “and that ain't even counting the apologies you owe for scarin’ me every time you decide to go off and be a hero.” He slants a grin in Luke’s direction and takes another healthy swallow from his mug, rolling his eyes when Luke doesn’t react to his baiting. “I’m kidding, Luke. Ain’t anything new you gotta be sor--”

“I owe you my thanks, then,” Luke interrupts, his hands fidgeting with each other in his lap like two birds fighting over a cast-off bit of bread.

“For what?” Han says.

“For coming with me to Dagobah,” Luke says. “And -- for making me leave when you did. For knowing something was wrong.” He draws a slow breath, looking down at the smooth surface of the table, the lights strung up around them reflecting dully in the polished duraplast. “I didn't think you'd be able to sense that I was slipping. Or that you'd be able to trick me like you did once you'd figured it out.”

Han frowns. “Much as I love gettin’ credit for whatever I can get credit for,” he says when Luke's words fail to congeal into anything other than nonsense, “I didn't sense anything other’n you startin’ to act like a damn martyr again. Thought I'd put a stop to that while I could, 'fore it got you into trouble.”

“You may have been too late for that,” Luke murmurs absently. He ignores the inquisitive noise Han makes in answer to _that,_ asking instead: “Why did you come looking for me, then, that last day? I was closer to the _Falcon_ than I’d ever been before. You could’ve seen me from the ship, didn't need to come looking for me.”

“Wasn’t out lookin’ for you,” Han says, for all that the words feel like a blatant lie, even as they’re leaving his mouth. “Got bored lookin’ after my girl, decided to go for a walk. Just happened to be that I found you while I was walkin’ around, is all.”

“Are you sure?”

Han opens his mouth, then closes it, frowning. “Am I sure’a what?”

“That that’s why you came out to find me. That you were just taking a walk and happened to see me.”

“What else would I be doing?”

Luke shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says, looking out across the sparsely populated street, the few sentients going about their business in the dying twilight a raucous crowd compared to the suffocating isolation on Dagobah. “Things on Dagobah are -- _different,”_ he says. “It can sometimes be hard to remember what’s happened while you were there. Like your recent memories are really old, not like remembering something that just happened.”

Han opens his mouth, a tangle of questions wrapped tight around his tongue, but closes his mouth without voicing a single one, thinking back on the days he spent steeped in tedium and bad dreams, on the precious little contact he had with Luke each night, sharing their evening meal. The pervasive unease he felt, walking along the boggy paths whenever he _needed_ to get out and stretch his legs, the grudging acceptance he felt towards the flying, slithering, creeping wildlife he scared away with each step he took.

“Ever occur to you maybe there ain’t much _worth_ remembering on Dagobah?” he says, finally. “It’s a pretty miserable place, Luke. Worse if you’re tryin’ to justify bein’ there for religious reasons. I can see how you might not want to relive any’a that.”

Luke snorts softly. “If that were the case, I doubt I’d have clear memories of some of the other unpleasant places I’ve been,” he says, “but I do.”

“So you’re sayin’ -- what, the planet erases your memories or somethin’?” Han says. “Might explain why you keep goin’ back. Don’t think anybody in their right mind would go there more’n once.”

“Maybe,” Luke says.

Han sighs and finishes what’s left in his mug, setting it down on the table with more force than he needs to, the _clack_ of glass against duraplast sharp in the quiet evening. “Could give you somethin’ better to remember about your stop _here_ if you like, something more fun than sittin’ around bein’ all mystical in a bog,” he says. “Rooms ain’t pricey on little planets like this, and they’d be better’n the bunk on my ship. If you want.”

Luke’s cheeks are flushed warm already, probably from the ale he’s been nursing, but Han’s happy to imagine it’s in part for him, too. “I’d like that,” he says, which is equal parts the best thing Han’s ever heard and not at _all_ what he’s expecting to hear, the excitement that wells up quashed almost as fast as it rose when Luke adds, “but I don’t know if we should.”

“Can’t imagine why we shouldn’t,” Han says, trying to keep the disappointment he feels from seeping into his tone and mostly (kind of) succeeding. “Unless you’ve changed your mind now that you’ve got a choice’a literally _anybody_ but me.”

“That’s not -- you _know_ that isn’t what I meant,” Luke says, and the fact that he sounds annoyed is nice. Marginally. “I just meant that I don’t think I can trust anything I think or feel right now.”

“I ain’t _pushin’_ for anything,” Han says. “You know me, I’m easy. At your service. Just like I’ve been the last four years.”

Luke gives him a worried look, which is better than the frustrated little downturn of his mouth, but only a little. “That’s _not_ how it’s been,” he says. “Has it?”

“Hasn’t been anything worth complainin’ about,” Han tells him. It feels like a lie, so he adds: _“And_ you’d’ve gotten yourself blasted out of existence in a heartbeat if you hadn’t had me followin’ you around all these years, so that’s reward enough for me.” He knocks the back of his hand against Luke’s elbow. “Grown pretty fond’a you, y’know. Be an awful shame for you to go out there and get yourself killed.”

“Likewise,” Luke says, almost-smiling when Han grins at him.

“Ain't like we've gotta use a room here for anything but sleeping, y'know,” Han says after Luke’s slipped back into the silence he’s been wearing like a garment since their first days together on Dagobah, staring across the street at something, focused and intense for all that there’s little more than a street-lamp and some plain-face buildings to hold his attention. “Get a better night’s sleep than you would in the common bunks. Get us both rested up for whatever fight they throw us at next.”

“I don’t mind the bunks,” Luke says.

“You don’t seem to mind much’a anything these days,” Han grumbles. “For a kid who called my girl a piece’a junk the first time he saw her, you’ve really --”

“I used the Force for the first time when I was twelve,” Luke interrupts, apropos of nothing, his attention still riveted to the street lamp across the street. “Have I ever told you that?”

Han blinks at him, the abrupt shift in conversation bringing him up short. “Ah, no,” he says. “Don’t think you have.”

Luke licks his lips. “I was out playing with some friends,” he says, “climbing in the canyons near Darklighter Farm. Gavin slipped on some loose shale, up near the top of the part we were climbing. We’d gone out past where we were allowed to go, up too high in the canyon. High enough that it would've been a bad fall, if he'd gone down, bad enough to kill him, probably. I was too far away to grab him, but I reached out on instinct, like I thought I _could_ grab him, even from where I was, and --”

He stretches out his hand and curls his fingers loosely closed, as if grabbing a child's arm, looking at Han as he drops his hand back to his lap again. “I broke his arm and two scrub succulents in the process of breaking his fall. Threw enough rocks and dust in the process that no one could tell he'd been stopped ... unnaturally. We couldn’t see _anything_ for a really long time, waiting for the dust to settle, too scared to go to Gavin, see if he was okay. We could hear him screaming, so we knew he was alive, but --” He shakes his head. “Everyone thought he’d broken the scrub succulents on his way down, that they were what broke his arm, but also broke his fall, saved his life. His dad and uncle used to joke about it, even. Said if Gavin was going down, he was going to take some of Mother Nature with him.”

Han chuckles despite himself, pleased to see Luke smiling faintly when the younger man turns to pick up his mug, unprompted for once, and take a drink.

“I never told them any different,” Luke says, setting his mug down once again. “Never told any of them, Gavin or his cousin or my aunt and uncle. Gavin _loved_ that story, loved telling it and hearing other people tell it, and I was so afraid of -- of being _different_ that I didn't _want_ to correct them, any of them. I tried it at home that night, using the Force, when I was alone. Tried moving things around in my room, to see if I could. Never used it again after that, once I knew it was real. I thought I was cursed. We had a lot of stories about stuff like that on Tatooine, superstitions and stuff. I thought maybe they were true, that that’s why I could move stuff with my mind. Why I sometimes saw visions that came true later. Things I shouldn’t’ve known about, or been able to guess.”

Han stretches his legs out in front of him, pleased when he misjudges how far away Luke is and accidentally nudges him with the toe of his boot. “Where I ain't surprised to hear you were raised superstitious on a rock like Tatooine,” he says, “I can think of worse things you could be cursed with, if you're thinkin’a the Force like that.”

Luke frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I'm sayin’ your religion ain't the worst thing in the galaxy, kid,” Han says. “Ain't like you've gotta use it unless you want to, right?”

“Well, no,” Luke says, slowly, “but --”

“You ever use it on your friends again, after that one time?” Han wants to know.

“No,” Luke says, shaking his head. “I told you, I didn't want to use it after that first day. Until Ben started teaching me, on the _Falcon,_ when you and I first met. That was the next time I tried it. First time I let anyone know I could use it.”

“Well, there you go, then,” Han says, stalwartly ignoring the blossom of warmth growing under his ribs at the thought that he'd gotten to be a part of Luke's life as a Jedi, even if only as a smuggler-for-hire. “You don’t use it ‘less you need to. Rest’a the time, you’re plain ol’ normal. Like me.”

Luke looks at him, mouth tight in a thin line, for what feels like a very long time. “I don't think you're normal by anyone's standards,” he says, finally.

Han blinks at him. “You makin’ a _joke?”_

“Yeah,” Luke says. “Sorry, it's not very funny.”

He says it like he means it, like he believes it, and Han can't help but laugh at him for it, sitting up and pushing himself forward to kiss Luke on the mouth, the younger man's bemusement almost as delightful as the taste of ale on his lips, as the feel of him kissing back.

“I don't mind your shit sense of humor _or_ your weird religion,” Han tells him, looking him in the eye to make sure Luke doesn't think he's blowing smoke up his ass. “You're okay in my book, kid. Don't need to change one bit.”

Luke lifts his hands to rub his eyes, keeping his face obscured too well for Han to get a read on him. “Thank you,” he says once he's rubbed his eyes red, squinting at Han from under his hands. “I needed to hear that. More than you know.”

“Sure,” Han says, reaching down to give Luke's knee a squeeze. “Happy to remind you again any time.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Author-thoughts:_  
For the record, the vast majority of this story was written long, _long_ before Ep VIII ruined my Christmas, though it aligns well with many of my thoughts on the film. Google Docs tells me I started this thing on 29 October 2016, wanting to get some fanfiction out of my system before focusing on my original characters for the duration of my 2016 NaNo. That, my friends, was a long time ago in a mistr3ss-verse far, far away.

Ahh what to say about this fic? It didn't do what I wanted it to do, no one is surprised to hear that. I also gave up on this story a lot, as you can probably tell from how long it's been languishing. I'd give up and go away, come back and re-read to see if it was at all salvageable, discover that I liked it, work on it some more, give up again, lather-rinse-repeat. And it should be noted that the bit where Luke and Han gave each other handjobs in a swamp? Yeah that got cut. Trust me, as much as I like the idea of these two getting hands-y with each other, that particular bit of smut is better off on the cutting room floor.

If you liked this story -- or, hell, if you _didn't_ like it -- drop me a line and let me know your thoughts. I do enjoy diving down the conversation rabbit holes AO3 seems to get out of folks, especially when those rabbit holes lead to more fiction.

~~Not that I haven't already written a good chunk of the next section of this story. Nooooope.~~ ::soft sobbing::  



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